Circumstance
by winterhorses
Summary: She told me that we were destined to be together; she promised that we would meet again. I believe her with all my soul, but I've never understood how I am to find her. With no visible road signs to guide me in this life, my only conclusion is that I must join her in the next. And that is what I intend to do. Sequel to Happenstance.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello there! It's been forever, but I'm determined to find my mojo and return to my WIPs, particularly The Fence.**

 **To jumpstart my motivation, I've decided to finish and post a requested continuation of my o/s Happenstance. This will be a short little piece, around 4 chapters depending on how I break it up. The rough draft is pretty much finished, so no worries about this not being completed in a timely manner! I'll be posting once a week from here on out. As always, I promise nothing in terms of storyline, so PM if you have concerns!**

* * *

 **Circumstance 1**

* * *

The idea took shape long before the light finally left her eyes, but it was only a few months ago that I informed my family and began making plans. They know of my pain, and even if Alice hadn't given them warning, the announcement would've come as no great surprise.

After all, how could more be expected of me than they, themselves, would be able to bear?

Marcus of the Volturi is the only of us known to have survived for any significant time after the loss of a mate, although his existence is hardly more than just that: one of bare survival. Without Chelsea's powerful gift tying him to the Brotherhood, he would have followed Didyme in death centuries ago.

I have never met him, and for this, I am thankful beyond words. Knowing my own devastating anguish after a mere twenty years, I cannot fathom the magnitude of despair that must ravage his mind. Although, it is possible I would find his mental voice to be muted. Carlisle says the man is not much more than an animated body, an empty shell whose soul had departed the mortal realm along with Didyme's.

Perhaps his sanity is gone as well.

I can see how easy it would be to lose myself to the pain and descend to an unreachable depth. The love I have for my family is strong, but it is only a flickering spark of warmth in the infinite cold void of an existence without my mate. I appreciate their devotion, but it cannot save me.

I don't want to be saved.

She told me that we were destined to be together; she promised that we would meet again. I believe her with all my soul, but I've never understood _how_ we are supposed to meet. She said that I would go on, but I feel myself a step closer to Marcus with each setting sun. Surely my path to her is not meant to parallel his. With no visible road signs to guide me in this life, my only conclusion is that I must join her in the next.

And that is what I intend to do.

* * *

There was never really a question as to whom I would ask, even though they all were willing. Not only had Carlisle been the one to bring me into this world, he is also my oldest and closest companion: a father, a brother, a mentor, friend, and confidant. Though he can't read my thoughts as clearly as I hear his, no one else knows me better, or ever did—not even _her_. She and I shared only a few fleeting months together, whereas my relationship with Carlisle has spanned a century.

Each family member reacted a different way to my decision. When I finally lifted my eyes from the dining room table's surface after delivering the solemn news, I first looked to Alice and Jasper. Through their individual gifts, they'd already known why I called the family together.

Alice, of course, had experienced my revelation in her visions and could see that my future had a defined end. And while she was unable view my final hours on earth, it was enough that she couldn't find me afterward. Her devastated thoughts told me that she had accepted the inevitability. Yet even until the moment Carlisle's Mercedes took us past the distance I was able to hear her, she flipped through various decisions in her mind, trying to find an outcome in which I remained with the family.

Jasper, my complement in mental ability, had gathered my intent from the determination and hope overpowering my emotional state. He can feel when a person reaches a limit; mine had been exceeded for some time. And, although he wasn't quite able to hide his unbidden twinge of relief amidst his sorrow, I bear him no ill will. I tried to keep my distance from him as much as possible over the years, but he'd still been subject to the full force of my despair for far too long. In a way, I am doing him almost as much a service as looking after my own interests by ending this waking nightmare.

Rosalie took the news almost as stoically as Alice and Jasper—at least on the outside. Her mind, however, worked at a feverish pace as she sought to assimilate the information. Our entire history began to replay in her mind, and I had been surprised to read her regretful thoughts regarding our somewhat cool relationship. She gave me a small, sad smile as she silently transmitted her hopes that I would find peace at last.

Emmett needed the most time to accept my words at face value. Initially, he'd been certain that I was just going through a "mood" and would soon come out of it. It became his mission to point out every single positive aspect of life I'd be missing out on, should I continue with the "idiotic plan to off yourself like some kind of demented vampire Romeo." The truth of my conviction finally settled in two days later, after the majority of my affairs were put in order. Emmett came storming into my room with the neatly packed box of video games I had left on his and Rosalie's bed. He proceeded to hurl them, one by one, while screaming out colorful descriptions of my apparent lack of sense. He then flung me through the glass of my window and continued pummeling my body with any moveable object he could find. Knowing how much he needed the release, I didn't put up a fight. Rosalie finally stopped his assault when he started toward the Vanquish I had bequeathed to her.

I was glad she intervened, for it really is a fine piece of automotive engineering.

Esme's distraught expression was the most difficult to see, but I forced myself to meet her venom-wet eyes. I consider her my mother as much as the one who birthed me—in some ways, perhaps more so—and she deserved the opportunity to confirm that I did not take my decision lightly. She deserved to know that the repercussions of my actions would weigh on me until the very last moment, and I would accept responsibility for that. But despite the staggering heartache I am causing her, Esme also understands better than anyone else what it is like to suffer such a soul-shattering loss. Yes, she will always be grateful to have received a second chance at life and love, but there is a tiny, secret part of her that forever grieves for the infant son she'd been kept from joining.

Carlisle, ever sensitive to his family's needs, had tightened his arms around his wife as if the force of his love could somehow shield her from all hurt—past, present, and future. To me, he gave a single, simple nod before closing his eyes. But, as from the very beginning of our friendship, his mind remained open and free to my perusal. The thoughts I found there reminded me of those belonging to a parent whose grown child was heading to war. Worry, fear, sadness, loss, even a little anger and guilt—they were certainly present, but what held sway over them all was a feeling of respect concerning my decision and unconditional, never-ending, all-encompassing love.

It's that fatherly devotion that sustains him now as each mile brings us closer to my death. At a glance, he appears calm, and even his thoughts proceed in a serene, well-mannered order. But I can see the unconscious tells that reveal his true state. Fingers that clutch the wheel just a little too tightly, an occasional twitch of his jaw, dark and shadowed eyes despite a recent hunt.

There's little conversation in the car, just the quiet harmonies of my favorite orchestral pieces. We never needed many words, Carlisle and I, and his unassuming presence is the best balm for my rather jumbled mind. It's a disconcerting mix of dread and anticipation that I feel, and my nerves are on edge. In fact, when a shrill ringing pierces the stillness, I start a little in my seat.

Carlisle eyes me in concern as he pulls out his phone. An unchecked hope flashes through his mind that Alice might be calling with a last minute intervention. I grimace at the thought, but when he reads the name on the screen, my frown becomes a barely contained sigh.

It's worse than I thought.

It's Sophie.

The corner of Carlisle's mouth twitches upward as he opens the call through his car's speaker system. I, however, find nothing amusing about the situation. The only thing I can do is brace myself for the onslaught to follow.

Sure enough, she begins unloading on me the second we're connected.

"So, how's the death march proceeding?" she spits out angrily. "Is your moronic son still planning to go through with this insanity?"

"Hello to you, too, Sophie," Carlisle chuckles. "How are you today?"

"I'm just _great,_ thanks for asking. Had the usual kind of morning—woke up and got dressed, ate breakfast, checked email, stopped by my husband's grave to change out the flowers, consoled Tess as she missed her daddy, tried to explain why her godfather is having himself killed…you know, just normal everyday stuff…"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," I snap out in exasperation. "Tess is a _cat_. I assure you she does not recognize me as her godfather, nor is she capable of understanding what is about to happen."

"How the hell do you know? You can't read animals' minds."

"That's because they have no conscious thoughts in their minds to read!"

I can't believe I'm arguing with her about this, but the woman has the tendency to bring out the teenager in me when we bicker.

"Well maybe you're just too stupid to understand them!" she retorts, not missing a beat. "After all, a person who thinks he's fulfilling some sort of strange soulmate destiny by taking himself out in a literal blaze of glory is obviously a few pancakes short of a stack!"

As usual, her words further fan the flames of my ire. "First off, I'm not a _person_ , I'm a vampire, and you have _no_ idea what it's like to lose a mate. Don't you dare lecture me on a subject about which you know nothing!"

"I know that Grams never would have wanted you to kill yourself!" she yells back. "You're just a weak, selfish c-coward." Her voice breaks as she chokes on a sob. "What about the ones you're leaving behind? What about your family? What about your friends? What about…me?" She sniffles quietly. "Daniel's gone, and now you're leaving me too?"

"Oh, Sophie," I murmur sadly, my fury deflated by her pained words. "He was a wonderful man, and you know how sorry I am for the loss of your husband. But my mind is made up. Maybe it is selfish of me to do this, but how is it any less selfish of you to ask me to face an eternity of loneliness? It's too much for me to bear. I've tried, but I can't do it; it's just _too much_."

Carlisle places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. I welcome his unending devotion.

Sophie doesn't speak for several moments.

"I know," she says at last, defeated. "It's just so hard to come to terms with this. You've become one of my closest friends, and I'm going to miss you so much. I'm not ready to say goodbye."

I remain silent, knowing there's nothing I could possibly add to make this easier. Sophie sniffles a few more times and then takes a deep breath.

"Oh god...I guess this is it, then. Uh, we pretty much covered everything in our talk last night, but I just...I want to tell you one last time how grateful I am for your friendship, your love, and your support, especially during some of the hardest periods of my life. While I might not have a perfect memory, I'll never forget you, Edward Cullen. S-say hi to Grams and Daniel for me if… _when_ …you see them again. I love you."

She finishes in a whisper and hangs up before I can even think of responding. The guilt I feel is overwhelming, and my shoulders drop under the weight of it. Carlisle's fingers tighten to remind me of his presence. He wishes he could take on my burdens—and Sophie's—as his own but has to settle for reassurance, instead.

 _We'll get her through this_ , he says to me in his mind. _She won't be alone._

No, Bella's granddaughter would never be alone. My family will look after her welfare until she draws her last breath.

Even before the link between us had been discovered, the spirited woman gained my friendship during a shared college class, despite my best efforts to prevent it. I had no desire to become close with another human on any level after Bella, but Sophie's charm and persistence were all but impossible to resist. Like her grandmother, she felt completely at ease in the presence of the supernatural and showed herself to be far too perceptive. At least with her, however, I could read her thoughts and verify that she could be trusted to keep our secret. In the two decades since we first met, Sophie has become an honorary Cullen, and each of us has grown to love her dearly.

Leaving her behind will be nearly as difficult as saying goodbye to my family, with the small comfort of knowing she has only a finite period of time to grieve. I wouldn't quite label it cowardice as she did, but it does not escape my notice that by choosing to meet death now, I will be spared the heartache of losing anyone else.

The rest of our trip goes without interruption, and I spend the time immersed in the too-few memories I have of Bella. It's an automatic process now, this escape from reality to a place and time where we are not parted. As the years have slipped by, I've been living more within each recalled moment than in the tangible world around me, and it is physically painful to leave the sanctuary of my memories. Carlisle has to shake my shoulder to catch my attention when I miss his mental and verbal alerts concerning our location.

The skyscrapers of Chicago loom tall on the horizon, and my chest tightens. While it looks vastly different than the city in which I grew up, I've returned many times since 1918. The changed landscape signals "home" to me as much now as it did then. I feel a sense of comfort, of completion, in knowing that my life will end where it began.

We continue past the heart of the city and exit the highway on the way to our destination in Lincoln Park. I'd renovated the interior of my parents' residence several times to keep it updated for tenants, but on the outside, the stunning three-story home is much the same as when I was a child. Carlisle and Esme are now the official owners, and I hope they get more use out of it than I did. City living is not easy for someone with a gift such as mine.

A large garage is one addition I did make to the building. Though the sky is overcast and we are in no danger of exposing ourselves, Carlisle pulls inside to park. A curious sensation that almost feels like a stomachache grows in my abdomen, and I examine my feelings to see if I am having second thoughts about what is to come.

No.

No second thoughts.

I think it's…eagerness.

Eagerness and the anticipation of relief.

"Let's go," I murmur, my voice purposefully devoid of emotion despite the impatience building in me. No need to make this any more difficult for Carlisle than necessary.

I step out of the vehicle and wait for him to open the door to the house with his key. He doesn't move from where he's standing, however, but instead looks down the driveway into the street.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a walk around Lincoln Park or visit downtown before heading inside?" he asks quietly.

I hear the plea in his thoughts and hold back a sigh. He's never requested much from me; giving him an hour or two is the least I can do.

"Yes, of course. How about we go to Millennium Park? I've read that it's quite nice."

"Yes, that's a wonderful idea!" Carlisle breathes, enthused by the temporary reprieve. "I'd like to see it myself."

It's rather mild for a late winter afternoon, but walking outside without some sort of protective outerwear would look strange. Carlisle reaches into the car and then hands me his coat. Already wearing a sweater, he dons a light jacket, and we exit the garage.

Rush hour is just beginning, but most people are heading away from downtown, not going toward it. We walk the few blocks west to the 'L' station and stand at the back of the platform to wait for a train. Carlisle entertains me with memories about his experiences with earlier forms of transportation.

 _One of the biggest difficulties about being a vampire doctor before the turn of the twentieth century was dealing with the horses,_ he recalls with amusement. _In larger cities, most of them were used to all sorts of stimuli and ignored my presence. But in smaller, rural towns, they tended to be more wary of predators. I frequently had a reputation as being a terrible horseman, since the beasts either tried to run away when I approached or lashed out in an attempt to trample me. I rejoiced to the heavens when the automobile became an affordable commodity for the general public._

I chuckle at the wry tone of his thoughts as we board a train on the Brown Line.

"Hmm, I must have missed the chapter on horse-vampire interactions in _Black Beauty,"_ I quip under my breath.

Carlisle smirks.

 _Ah, that's because Aro got a hold of an advance copy and threatened the poor creature with sending me over for dinner if it wasn't edited out_.

I'm unable to stop the bark of laughter that erupts from my throat, causing a few nearby passengers to glance in my direction. Carlisle throws an elbow into my side and makes a _tsk_ ing noise.

 _Honestly, Edward, you should know better than to call attention to yourself in such a manner. Who was your mentor? He must have been a second-rate hack._

We both laugh at that, having little concern over who might be looking our way. As our mirth fades naturally away, Carlisle lifts a hand to my shoulder and touches his forehead to my temple. He sighs.

 _Thank you for these extra moments, my dear son. I will cherish them always, along with all the rest I have been blessed to have with you._

I lean into him in acknowledgement, and we pass most of the ride in this quiet, reflective manner.

The background noise in the train car remains a steady din until we near the Loop, the heart of the Chicago business district. People begin to stand and move closer to the door in preparation to disembark.

"Would you like to exit now and walk the extra distance?" Carlisle asks, considerate of my tolerance to being in an enclosed space with so many humans.

"I'm fine," I reply, waving off his concern. "It doesn't bother me."

While I haven't spent much time in public recently, my thirst isn't challenged in the least. After conquering my need around the most tempting blood of them all, no other human has caused me to think twice about straying from my diet of animal nourishment.

Bella had been very apologetic when she learned of my true nature, and even more so after I explained her blood's unique call to me. I found it both touching and amusing that she tried so hard to lessen her appeal—as if such a thing were even possible. Wearing as much clothing as possible in an effort to contain her scent was a commendable idea, and it took a good deal of control not to laugh at her embarrassed pout when I told her that extra layers increased her body temperature, which in turn magnified the potency of her delicious aroma. Of course, then she took to exposing as much skin as possible, and this brought about difficulties for me of an entirely different sort.

"Ours is the next stop," Carlisle says, seeing that I am yet again lost to my memories.

I nod absent-mindedly, loath to relegate my beloved Bella to a less prominent part of my thoughts. She never leaves them entirely, thanks to the expanded mental capacity afforded to beings like myself. And when I concentrate hard enough, I can almost see her in front of me. I can practically hear the dulcet tones of her voice, feel her silky skin...breathe in her heavenly scent…

My entire body freezes to stone as my nose detects a trace of the very thing for which I've been longing.

I know it's not possible—I _know_ this—and yet…

"What is it?" Carlisle asks in alarm, his eyes darting around the car, looking for the cause of my shocked expression. "What's wrong?"

I suck in a lungful of air, desperately searching for confirmation that I wasn't imagining things. It's entirely plausible that I've spent so much time in the past that I can no longer distinguish between memory and reality, yet it seemed so _real_ to me.

But…it's gone. The scent is no longer there.

" _No_."

I barely recognized the whispered cry as my own.

"Are you okay? Edward, _son_ , what's going on?" Carlisle grabs my arm to anchor me to him as the car fills up with passengers.

I don't spare him a thought, all my faculties strained to the utmost in a frenzied attempt to find that scent again. Odors swirl around me from the moving people and the breeze off the train's platform. Sweat, perfume, baked goods, leather, rusted metal…

… _her?_

My head snaps higher as I catch it again, the faintest trace of the familiar. I don't know what, how, or why, but none of that matters now. The only thing that matters is to find it.

But where?

Eyes closed, nose in the air, I taste the air…searching…straining…

 _There!_

It's not on this train; the scent is coming from somewhere outside.

Without a single conscious thought, my body pushes past the others, out of the 'L' car, and away from Carlisle.

His frantic mental calls barely register as the doors hiss shut and the train pulls away.


	2. Chapter 2

Circumstance 2

* * *

Many times, my family has praised my control over the instinctive tendencies of a vampire's nature, and it is that restraint that saves me now. Every particle of my body is begging to move as fast as I am able, but the last thing I want is to gain the attention of the Volturi. Only decades of practice interacting with humans keeps my pace at a hurried walk as I move down the platform, taking short but deep draughts of air every few seconds. My mind rapidly sifts through the smells in a desperate attempt to locate the one I need.

Hope diminishes and despair rises with each footfall. Every few strides, I think I catch a faint trace, but it disappears the moment I stop to investigate further. My hands burrow into my hair, gripping and pressing hard as if the painful sensation can somehow keep me grounded, keep me from flying apart.

I wonder if my earlier thought was correct: could I have slipped so deeply into the past that I only imagined her scent? Did my tenuous hold on reality finally snap? I should find Carlisle and return home before I begin to conjure her in sight and sound, as well.

At the far end of the platform, I slow to a stop, feeling more heartsick and lost than ever. All the energy that had gathered up and hurtled me out of the train now leaves in one quick rush. My heart is too heavy for my body to hold, and I slump down to my knees onto the graying wooden planks of the station floor.

The movement sends a puff of familiar air into my nostrils once again. What madness is this? I want to laugh hard and loud at the absurdity of it all, but, like a drowning man doomed to his fate, I keep my mouth tightly closed, trapping in the air—trapping the _scent_ —so that I can cling to life for as long as possible.

Because when I take another breath only to lose it yet again…

I suppose I could go without air indefinitely, or at least until it's over, but that would only be perpetuating the lie of her existence. She's not here, and no amount of fantasizing or remembering will make it so.

Enough is enough.

I exhale forcefully and push up to my feet. Oddly, the scent still lingers, and when I take a step toward the exit, it intensifies. I also feel the smallest resistance on the bottom of my shoe, as if a force is trying to keep me from leaving. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that the mysterious pull is nothing more than a piece of chewed gum, stuck to my sole, stretched out as it refuses to let go of its tethers, releasing the most delicious and tantalizing smell…

This time, I do forget myself and pluck off the gum in a much-too-quick movement. But I don't care, because _this_ is the source of the scent.

I've found it.

Not giving a damn if others are looking on and thinking me strange, I bring the piece close under my nose, even touching it, as I inhale over and over again.

It's _her_ , alright, but at the same time…it's _not_.

I don't know what to make of this.

Vampires have a very acute sense of smell—easily on par with that of the most sensitive bloodhound. Through his research on our anatomy and physiology, Carlisle discovered that when venom changes us, it not only alters our existing cells but also triggers genes in our DNA to create new ones, including those no longer used by modern humans. One such modification is the enhanced growth of the Jacobson's organ and its associated connections. Found in many animals, including dogs, horses, and snakes, this organ acts as an auxiliary for the sense of smell and primarily detects pheromones.

And pheromones, of course, play an important role in the reproduction practices of many species.

Carlisle believes that, from there, it's a short hop to the hypothesis that our sense of smell is crucial to the mating phenomenon in vampires. He postulates that each half of a couple recognizes and responds to a unique scent possessed only by the mate, although the "hows" of this pairing remains a mystery.

His theory certainly holds true in my case. Bella's heavenly scent calls to me in an utterly compelling way and is exclusive to her. The actual aroma itself is almost impossible to describe relative to other scents: it is not earthy or spicy, not floral or musky. In all my years, I've never come across anything remotely similar, not even in her own children.

These thoughts speed through one part of my brain, while another almost instantly dismisses them as being academic in nature. It doesn't really matter if the scent is exactly the same or only slightly. I have to follow it, regardless.

But where is the trail? If I assume the chewing gum came from a person crossing this platform, there should be an olfactive path either leading to or departing this spot. But I'm not able to detect any other hints of the scent among the myriad of other odors in the air. Perhaps too much time has passed.

Reason attempts to establish a hold in the maelstrom of desperation gusting through me. If the trail has already gone cold, it makes no sense to race aimlessly about a very large city trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. I could rejoin Carlisle—whose mental voice is still calling for me as he disembarks the train at the next stop—and devise a logical search plan. We can inform the rest of my family, who will no doubt hurry to assist in any way possible. I can take some time to calm my rattled nerves and try to gain some perspective.

Or, I could blindly jump onto the next train that comes by and pray that I get lucky.

Naturally, I choose the latter.

My entire body vibrates with urgency during the short ride to the next stop. Still testing the air, I alternate between long inhalations and quick sniffs. These actions draw the notice of several passengers in my vicinity, but they believe I am either in the midst of a drug-induced episode or mentally disabled. On any other occasion, I'd find their assessments amusing. As it is, I only care that they have no suspicions of a more dangerous kind.

When the door open at the Washington/Wabash station, I dash outside and breathe deeply. Carlisle's familiar scent stands out strongly against the others, but there's no sign yet of the one I'm seeking. As quickly as I can manage without bowling over others, I run down the platform and then squeeze through the doors of the final car just before they close.

It's another short ride to the State/Lake stop and then to Clark/Lake, where I repeat the process again, sweeping one end of the platform to the other, only to come up with nothing. At this final stop in the Loop, it occurs to me to take note I'd boarded a Green line train, heading west. Carlisle's anxious thoughts are only a faint whisper on the edge of my range, and I'm not carrying a phone. If I want to find him easily and allay his fears, now would be the time to stop my headlong rush and return to him.

But while I hate causing him worry, I'm simply unable to disengage. The train clatters on to the next station.

Stop. Jump out of a car. Weave through the bodies, search the air, and make it as far along the platform as possible until the doors are about to close. Slide into another car just in time.

Clinton. Morgan. Ashland.

A few wary passengers watch me closely in suspicion, others are entertained and wonder if I'm fulfilling a dare or a shooting a YouTube video.

The trip is longer to California station as we move into East Garfield Park. The landscape outside the train has changed. More graffiti, more trash, more buildings in disrepair. I detect the odors of several different kinds of burning drugs, as well as the lingering trace of spent ammunition: an acrid mixture of ammonia, sulfur, and nitroglycerin.

Over a swath of winter-bare trees and into West Garfield Park.

More boarded windows. More vacant, overgrown lots and condemned structures. An anxiety rising to fever pitch as each stop yields another unfruitful search. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that I taste venom.

It makes little sense that I should feel so defeated as the number of stations left on the line decrease. The area encompassed by the Chicago metropolitan area is expansive, and for all I know, the owner of the scent could've been headed to an Amtrak station or one of the airports. I smother that thought at once, however. I simply am not able to cope with the idea of expanding my search radius to a national, or even global, scale.

Pulaski. Cicero.

At Laramie station in Austin, the train is delayed for a few minutes, apparently due a signal light issue. I shove my clenched fists deep into my pockets to keep from accidentally bending a vertical metal pole in impatience. It's almost dark outside, and I consider departing the train and using my full speed wherever possible.

Thankfully, the thoughts of the train operator let me know that the problem is resolved. The doors begin to shut as I take in a deep, calming breath.

And hold it.

My arm shoots out to prevent the doors from fully closing.

The scent is back.

The doors groan in protest as I yank them apart faster than they can open. I don't care one bit. Praying to every high power I've ever heard of, I leap onto the platform, close my eyes, and scour the air.

It's still here. Faint, but unmistakable.

And there's a trail.

If I were still human, my pulse would be racing, my stomach would be churning, my skin would be soaked in perspiration. But other than the tension throughout my body that feels like an unknown force is simultaneously pulling it apart and squeezing it inward, I seem unaffected as I hurry through the streets, across yards, around obstacles, all the while following the soundless call of a steadily stronger scent.

The buildings in the area are somewhat nicer and better maintained than those of East and West Garfield Park, but there are still many with plywood nailed over windows and crumbling facades. Because of the season, a good portion of the residents are inside, but not all, by far. I pass numerous people congregating in groups or walking casually to their destinations. Almost all of them eye me curiously, wondering if I am lost or perhaps looking to purchase drugs. Several shouted questions and taunts are thrown my way, with a few young men even offering to sell to me.

I ignore them all.

After about a mile, I stop running when discovering more than one trail. In fact, there are several, some stronger than others, indicating they were more recently laid down. Choosing one of the most potent, I follow it at an accelerated walk, trying to discern as much information from subtle nuances as possible. It's not a straight, even dispersion of scent, but one that crisscrosses itself and has areas of higher concentration, indicating stopping and remaining in one place for a while.

A half hour of traversing the majority of the South Austin neighborhood brings me no closer to the source of the scent, and my initial fervor has waned. For all I know, the person is not even currently in the area. I double back on one of the trails and find a small area between two abandoned buildings that is marked strongly with scent. The streetlamp is broken, making it particularly dark.

Sighing forlornly, I sink to the ground, pull my legs close to my chest, and rest my forehead on my knees. The scent continues to tickle my nose, and I consider its similarity to the one I crave so dearly.

Similar, yes…but not the _same_.

What am I doing? Bella is waiting for me to join her in the next life, yet I delayed our reunion by going on a fool's chase after a weak imitation. What does it matter if there's another person out there whose scent reminds me of hers? It may be a strange and highly unlikely coincidence that I find this today, here in Chicago, but that doesn't mean there is any special significance in it.

It's not some divine signal to alter my course. It was simply a matter of…

"I've got a gun pointed at your head, so don't you dare fucking move."

The words coming from behind me are so unexpected and startling that I actually gasp. Loudly.

"And keep your damned mouth shut, too."

It sounds like a young female, and there's a noticeable tremor in her voice, though she's doing her best to sound intimidating. Her heart is pumping furiously, and I can hear her swallow several times. She's not so close that I can feel the warmth of her body heat, but I am still able to tell that _this_ is the person whose scent I've been searching.

I didn't find it, _it_ found _me_.

Strangely, however, the scent isn't much stronger in her presence than that of the trails she'd left behind. It's one of the faintest odors I've ever detected coming from a human.

While I'm considering the odd situation, she takes a shaky breath and speaks again.

"Now listen, here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna lay down on your stomach with your hands up as high as you can get 'em, and I'm gonna come over and take your wallet. If you even fucking think about trying something, I'm putting in bullets in you."

I barely pay attention; I have a niggling feeling that I'm missing some important detail. It occurs to me that I haven't even seen yet what she looks like, and while I intend to immediately remedy that oversight, the prickling suspicion remains.

Pushing it aside, I smoothly rise to my feet and turn around.

"Stay right there!" she yells, panicked. The small, badly scuffed handgun she's aiming at me jumps up and down uncontrollably in trembling fingers.

Unconcerned by the weapon or her earlier warning, I scrutinize her features. What I see is both confusing and disappointing.

A dark-rooted lock of washed-out blond hair sticking out from under a dingy, oversized hoodie. Dirt-smudged skin stretched tight over high cheekbones and wide, wild, sunken eyes that remind me of an injured and cornered animal. Full but chapped lips that are likely a deep rose red in the light.

This person bears little resemblance to _her_ , and I see no recognition of me in the girl's expression.

But there's still that scent…

"Bella? Are you…do you know Bella?" I take a step forward, watching her face intently. "What's your name?"

"I told you to stop!" she yells. She clumsily adjusts the grip on the gun. "Stop and throw me your wallet right this fucking second, or I swear I'll shoot!"

"Have we met before?" I advance another step, compelled by the need for answers. "Were you born here in Chicago?"

"I'm not gonna to warn you again!"

I wonder if any of my questions had an impact on her. The girl takes a small step back and glances over her shoulder, as if she's considering running. I don't want to chase after her, but I can't let her leave just yet. If only I knew what she was thinking…

I suck in a quick breath of air. _Oh, God_. I have no idea what's going through her mind right now.

I can't hear her thoughts.

An explosion of excitement sizzles through me. The similar scent I can accept as happenstance, but not _this_. Only one other person has ever had a mind silent to me, and that was my beloved Bella. This has to be some sort of sign. This girl _has_ to be important.

"Amazing," I whisper, mostly to myself. "I can hardly believe this is real, and yet—"

As I continue to stare in wonderment, the figure in front of me begins to change shape. Pale hair turns dark. Cheeks fill out. Height diminishes by a few inches. Blank eyes deepen with recognition and love.

" _Bella_ ," I choke out. "It's you. Oh god, it's _you_."

I barely notice that I'm moving forward again, moving to be reunited with the other half of my soul. Her expression brightens, her arms stretch toward me in welcome. I long to her hear her voice again, but when I finally do, her mouth doesn't move, and the words make no sense.

"Get back! Get the fuck back _now_!"

I almost pause to ask why she would say such a thing, but my need to be near her overrules all else.

I've just reached her when a reverberating bang shatters the air around us. A hammering force punches into my left hip and spins me around. At the point of impact, my skin splinters in an expanding web pattern like cracks in ice. The pain sends me to my knees.

I begin to heal almost immediately, but it still takes several seconds for me to gather my wits amidst the throbbing agony.

The smell hits me first. Rich, sweet, mouthwatering… _blood_. There's a lot of it, and my mouth reflexively fills with venom. I haven't hunted in several weeks—not really seeing a point to making myself stronger—and that which is seeping to the ground a few feet away is certainly a temptation.

But…not really more so than any other human's blood.

Thankfully.

I'm next aware of the sounds. A rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, a low moan.

It is the girl, and she's hurt.

Whirling back toward her, I am horrified by the sight that greets me.

She lies flat on her back, her sweatshirt shredded and bloody. Her face is also bleeding from several cuts. I can see a few small pieces of metal embedded in the wounds. The handgun is on the ground by her feet where she likely dropped it after the bullet exploded into fragments against my body.

I silently apologize for violating her privacy as I rip off the hoodie and long-sleeved shirt to examine the extent of her injuries. Abrasions of varying severity litter her torso, arms, and hands, and some are rather deep. I'm particularly concerned about puncture wound at the inside elbow bend of her left arm. There is likely a piece of shrapnel inside, and based on the location of entry, it might be lodged very close to the brachial artery, a major blood vessel of the arm.

She needs treatment as soon as possible.

Quickly checking her clothes for identification, I am dismayed to discover only a few crumpled dollar bills in a pocket of her jeans and nothing else. I shed my coat and put it on her as gently as possible, both to keep her warm and to cover her naked skin. The large, blackened hole in my slacks is now glaringly obvious, but there's no time to do anything about it.

Careful not to jar the spine and neck, I pick her up and run as quickly as my human façade allows toward West Suburban Medical Center, a hospital I'd passed earlier while following the scent trail. She seemed to have lingered there on several occasions; I wonder why. There are so many things I want to ask her, so many questions to be answered, but nothing is important right now except her well-being.

But still…

My heart can't help but rejoice in the feeling of having her in my arms. It's so familiar, so right. And although this girl doesn't look like her, although she only barely has an element of her scent, I know we've finally been reunited. As impossible as it may be, Bella _is_ here with me again.

She just… _has_ to be.

I ignore the multiple catcalls and the few concerned shouts of passersby on my way to the hospital. The emergency room is crowded; a formidable line of people wait for their initial check-in. Some of them mutter in annoyance as I rush straight up to an admission receptionist's window, even though the urgency of my situation is obvious.

The middle-aged lady takes one look at the unconscious, bleeding girl in my arms and yells out to the triage nurse. An older woman, weary from a long shift and somewhat numb to the horrors of her profession, takes her time dismissing her current patient and unhurriedly makes her way around the corner. I have a difficult time standing in place and instead want to go directly to a trauma room without waiting a second longer.

But all I can do is gnash my teeth as the nurse calls me back to the triage area. Because the girl I lay onto the rolling bed is clearly breathing and not gushing blood, she decides to collect a baseline set of vitals before having an ultrasound and radiographs taken.

My hands clench into fists.

"What happened?" she asks gruffly, reaching for the blood pressure cuff attached to its monitor. "Some sort of explosion?"

"I don't know," I lie, allowing my very real anxiety to come through in my voice. "I found her like this. Will she be okay?"

"You'll have to wait for the doctors' assessment. Are you her…boyfriend?" She glances at my clothes, then the girl's, and silently wonders if I'm a college student who was in the area looking for a prostitute.

I'm torn between fury and dismay when she assumes the girl is one of those prostitutes. The idea horrifies me, but then, I can't deny it has crossed my mind, as well.

"I d-don't know who she is," I stammer, acting as the shaken and scared teen I'm pretending to be. "I was passing by and saw her on the ground. She's been unconscious the whole time."

The nurse only makes a grunting sound in reply.

I cringe when my coat is removed from the girl's body and I see the many wounds under harsh florescent lighting. They've all stopped bleeding except for the deep one inside her elbow. True, it's only a slow trickle now, but it worries me nonetheless. I want to draw the nurse's attention there, but I can tell from the general tone of her thoughts that she would feel insulted and become defensive. With much difficulty, I hold my tongue. I don't want to risk the possibility of further delay.

Thankfully, a member of the emergency department staff arrives to transport the bed to Radiology. I squeeze the girl's chilled, limp hand and lean over to press a kiss to her forehead. It piques the suspicion of the triage nurse, but I can't help myself.

"Doesn't know her, my ass," she mutters under her breath as she practically pushes me out of the triage room. Aloud, she says, "We got it from here. One of the receptionists can tell you what to do if you want to file a police report or make a statement." Her hawkish gaze settles on the ragged hole burned into my jeans. "Or not."

"Thank you," I reply curtly, desiring to escape her immediate presence as much as she wants me to go.

The next hour is filled with waiting and worry. Three patients suffering life-threatening injuries are brought into the Emergency Department and take precedence over lesser situations—like embedded shrapnel. I am more irritated than sympathetic toward the two young gang members involved in a turf dispute, but my heart cries out for a small boy who had been injured in the crossfire. He'd merely been in the wrong place when the bullets began flying, and now the doctors are fighting to save his life. Watching the scene unfold renews my respect for Carlisle's dedication to his profession…

 _Carlisle_ …

I've hardly given my beloved father figure a thought since leaving him behind at the Loop. Alice must have relayed my actions by now, but I owe him an explanation in person…or at the very least, via the hospital's courtesy phone. Actually, it's a bit odd that he hasn't already joined me here, but I'm sure there is a good reason behind his absence.

I'm about to stand from my seat in the waiting room and make the call when a conversation between doctors catches my attention. An attending physician is frustrated by the unhelpful hovering of a young resident as the she works to resuscitate one of the gang members who'd been shot in the chest. She doesn't think highly of his potential as a competent surgeon and hopes he'll decide to become a general practitioner instead. Her thoughts inspire dread in me, especially when she barks at him to review the girl's— _my_ girl's—preliminary radiographs, just to get him out of the trauma room. He asks what he should do after that, and she mumbles that they'll "go from there," as her patient experiences another episode of cardiac arrest.

The inexperienced resident, however, believes she has given him permission to take on treatment by himself. He looks over the x-ray scans and notes the bullet fragments. Assuming the accident was due to more gang-related activity and figuring the patient likely doesn't have insurance, he decides to save the hospital money by forgoing CT scans. He plans to remove the metal shards using only the front and side view x-rays. It will be good enough for _their kind_ , he thinks. It never occurs to him to question the reason for her unconscious state noted on her chart or to order CT scans in case of head injury.

If I had blood in my veins, it would surely be boiling by this dismissive decision. I'm also cursing myself for not taking the risk of being caught in a lie by fabricating a relationship with the girl that would allow me more say in her care.

It's time to correct that mistake—and be proactive on other fronts, as well.

Walking purposefully into the main treatment area, I bypass the central nurses' station and head straight for Exam Bay 8. Every step closer eases the tightness in my chest, and by the time my hand pushes aside the curtain, I can almost breathe normally again.

Almost.

My step hesitates for a fraction of a second at the sight of her lying there. Though I've kept a close watch on her through the minds of others, it is still something of a shock to see this girl's unfamiliar features instead of Bella's. The utilitarian hospital bed particularly brings to mind those final bittersweet days that she and I spent together before the cancer finally took her from me.

I slide a chair closer and take a seat beside the person that has turned my day upside down so thoroughly. Her blood-stained clothes have been replaced by a standard pale blue hospital gown, but her face remains dirty and smudged. I brush a few wayward strands of frayed blond hair from her forehead and sigh.

"This probably wasn't the way you envisioned your day panning out, either," I murmur. "I'm so very sorry you got hurt; I wasn't thinking clearly when I first saw you. It was inexcusable to let curiosity overrule your safety, but that won't happen again, I promise." I scrub a hand roughly over my face in frustration. "Why do I always make mistakes when it comes to you? One would think I'd know better by now. After all, I've done little else during the last few decades but reflect on our time together…"

My self-castigation is cut short by the over-confident thoughts of the resident—John Cartwright—as he enters the small exam space, pulling a tray of instruments and supplies behind him. My unexpected presence causes him to stop and stare.

"Who're you?" he asks rather rudely, noting my youthful but disheveled appearance. When he glances toward the bed, the tenor of his thoughts degrade further.

 _Oh nice, that's a hot_ _one_ … _and young_ , he observes. _Too bad she's street. What a waste._

"I'm her brother," I spit out, scowling darkly. "When will a CT be performed? She's been unconscious now for almost two hours, and I'm concerned about head injury."

Cartwright is taken aback by the authority in the voice of someone that appears several years younger than himself. His instincts warn against challenging me, but unfortunately for both of us, stubbornness prevails.

"Listen, I'm sure you've watched plenty of Scrubs or House or whatever, but what happens on TV isn't the way things are done in real life," he says condescendingly. "We don't do full body scans on someone who only needs a few stitches here and there." He glances at the chart in his hand and smirks at the "name" that was assigned to her from a pre-generated list of pseudonyms for anonymous patients. "I assure you, your sister—Miss R.L. _Apple_ —is just suffering from a mild concussion and will be awake any minute now."

"I want a second opinion," I insist. "We'll wait for another doctor."

His eyes narrow into a vicious glare. "Everyone else is busy, and her case isn't even that urgent. So either let me get to work, or make yourself comfortable, because you'll be waiting a long time to be seen again."

As much as I hate to acknowledge the truth in his words, a quick glance into the minds of the rest of the Emergency Department staff shows that they are indeed swamped with patients. I don't concede verbally, however—instead crossing my arms over my chest and jerking my head toward the hospital bed.

"That's what I thought," he declares smugly, pushing past me in dramatic fashion.

It isn't easy, but I manage to rein in my baser instincts and _not_ liberate his arms from his shoulders.

To his credit, Cartwright does take his time consulting the radiographs and proceeds carefully in removing the bullet fragments from the girl's skin. He is determined to prove himself to his attending in any way possible. True, his stitchwork leaves much to be desired and will likely result in some scarring, but I clench my jaw to keep from making a remark. The sooner he is finished and away from her side, the sooner I can begin to relax a little.

The young resident is beginning to extract the more deeply buried fragment near her elbow when she begins to stir. My entire being tenses in anxious anticipation as I reach for the hand on her free arm. I probably should give her space until she's fully conscious and calm, but I can't seem to pull myself away.

The doctor has also noticed her movement and quickens his efforts to pull the fragment through the entrance wound. He grudgingly admits to himself that his bedside manner isn't the most soothing and wants to complete the procedure before having to interact with her.

I frown at both his train of thought and the hurried movement of his forceps.

"Perhaps that last piece can wait until she's awake," I carefully suggest, hoping that he won't take my comment as a challenge to his competence—even though it is.

And of course, he does.

"Well, _kid_ , perhaps you should remember which one of us went to medical school and is the doctor here," he sneers. "So just shut up and let me finish so you can go back to getting your diagnoses from WebMD."

As if to punctuate his strong words, he gives a particularly forceful tug to the uncooperative bullet fragment. I can smell the seeping of fresh blood as he curses and reaches to grab another pair of forceps to hold open the wound.

"Be careful, you ass," I hiss inaudibly, watching him fumble with his grip.

But my words are too little, too late, as a number of things happen in the span of a minute.

Preoccupied with situating the new pair of forceps in his hand, Cartwright shifts his focus from the ones grasping the metal deep in the girl's arm.

I hear a sudden familiar mental voice, desperately calling out to me.

 _Edward, Edward! Son! Where are you? Please answer me! Dear Lord above,_ please _. This can't be the end. I didn't even get to say goodbye._

And aloud, faintly: "His scent leads into the hospital—the Emergency Department entrance. I'll see what I can find out. Please call me if Alice gets even the slightest feeling that he's still alive."

A closer sound. A low moan. One of the girl's legs kicks out. She attempts to roll away from Cartwright.

Her arm is jerked out of his inattentive grasp, causing a sharp edge of the fragment to slice into the brachial artery.

For the briefest of moments, the world freezes in place.

Bright red blood, hot and flavorful, spills from the wound, pulsing out to the metronomic beat of her heart. Paralyzed by shock and horror, I can only stare as crimson pools on the sheets.

Cartwright is caught in a similar trance. He knows he should act, but rational thought is buried under the weight of stifling fear—not for any possible harm to his patient, but to his reputation and his career.

The girl moans again, softer this time, weaker. The blood continues to pour onto the bed.

My brain finally shakes off its stupor. _Why am I just standing here?_

I leap to action, grabbing a wad of gauze and using it to apply pressure over the wound. I know exactly what steps to take to repair the severed artery, but in theory only. I wouldn't even consider taking a chance with her life while literally surrounded by doctors.

I inhale a quick breath to yell for help.

But as my lips part, the girl's eyes flutter open. Richly brown, full of mystery, multifaceted and complex like dark smoky quartz gemstones.

They sweep about the room, unfocused, and then settle on me.

Our gazes meet and lock.

And then, in those brown eyes, I see it.

I see _her_.

* * *

 **Sorry about the utter fail over responding to reviews! The flu went through my family, then strep throat, then a stomach virus. I'm finally feeling somewhat human again and hope to do better this time around. Much love!**


	3. Chapter 3

**So...it's been a while for me. There's been so much going on in RL, and sadly, I haven't been a good place to write (I'd be angrily killing off characters right and left with no fluffy HEAs in sight, sigh). But I've missed the fandom so much and am determined to finish all my WIPs. This is sort of a shorter chapter, but I'm easing back into the water one toe at a time. If you're reading this, thanks for sticking around! xxoo**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

We stare at one another, transfixed, through the eternity of a heartbeat. The air stills in my lungs; I am afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to _think,_ just in case the act itself will somehow break the connection I feel between us. My entire universe condenses down to a single point of light reflected in her eyes, and I want to exist solely in this moment.

Forever.

Then it occurs to me.

I _can_.

 _We_ can.

We _will._

But before that can happen, I must deal with the steady pulse of time.

Another swell of viscous dark red heat surges out of the wound and into the soaked gauze pads between my fingers. I examine it more closely and decide the bleeding must be staunched before I do anything else. No longer having to worry about the risk of permanent damage or impairment, I feel confident in my ability to handle the situation without assistance.

After all, Emmett's injuries were much more extensive than this single gash, and he healed completely.

Discarding the saturated gauze, I take another handful and press them to the inside girl's elbow. Her already-ashen complexion loses all remaining traces of color as she follows my gaze to her arm.

"Oh god…tha's not good," she slurs weakly. "Need 'elp."

"Don't worry, love," I murmur in reassurance. "Everything is going to be perfect soon."

She whimpers as her eyelids droop closed.

With a clarity of mind I haven't experienced in years, I grab two hemostatic clamps from the tray and pinch off the artery on either side of the laceration. It's not an easy task with so much pooled blood in the wound tract and takes a good minute to accomplish. Unfortunately, this is enough time for Cartwright to locate some coherency in his addled brain.

"What the hell are you doing?" he gasps, stumbling to my side. "You can't… _shit,_ I need to…they're gonna… _fuck_ …"

I don't have the time or patience for his nonsense. My foot kicks out to sweep his legs from under him. As he falls forward, I grasp the back of his head and push down to ensure his temple receives a glancing blow off the metal bedrail. His body crumples in unconsciousness as planned, and I quickly prop him up in a chair against the back wall.

Hopefully, there will be no more interruptions.

I bend over the girl to brush a kiss across her forehead and take the hand of her less-injured arm in mine.

"I wish I could make this part easier," I whisper, stroking a thumb over her knuckles. "I hate that you have to experience such pain. But I'm getting the chance to right the terrible mistake I made so long ago, and I won't let you down this time."

My lips move from her ear, down the line of her jaw, and to the smooth, soft skin of her neck. I breathe deeply, trying to snare that faint, elusive scent one more time, just in case it changes to something completely foreign.

After a final contented sigh, I mentally ready myself for the task at hand.

"I love you, Bella."

My open mouth is descending when a barely audible vibration in her throat causes me to pause.

"—ella…—ell…?"

"Yes. Bella. You're my darling, wonderful Bella, and we're together again." Just the thought of it overwhelms me with emotion. I swallow thickly, almost choking on venom. "At last, you and I will have the chance I denied us so long ago."

"—ell…? —ell…!"

She tries feebly to sit up but can't seem to gather enough strength to make it much further than lifting her head off the pillow.

"…have to…—ell…—ell…!"

Even though her voice is barely louder than a hoarse whisper, I can hear the rising panic in it.

"Shh, sweetheart. I know you've had a rough night, but please try to stay quiet. We don't want to draw attention right now."

In the back of my mind, a small but insistent piece of logic fights to be heard. It tells me to pull back from the situation, to let the intensity wane, to wait until I am not driven by emotions before making a potentially dangerous, irreversible decision. There's still time to snag the aid of a doctor, have the blood vessel repaired, and then bring her home before starting down that one-way path to immortality—before initiating the change.

But that tiny voice of reason has little more effect than shouting into gale force winds. I'm lost to the promise of the future, and only two thoughts guide my actions.

I _know_ that my Bella has come back to me.

I will do whatever it takes to ensure that we are never parted again.

So many things can harm a human, especially one who spends any amount of time in the presence of the supernatural; her current injuries being a case in point. Not even Alice could guarantee her safety during a transit from the hospital, and I won't tempt fate by delaying.

Nothing will stop me this time.

My lips touch her neck again.

Nothing could stop me.

"Don't…please…"

Nothing except…

"…please…"

 _Don't?_ Don't what? Don't change her? My brow furrows in confusion. Surely, her words can't be meant for me, for us.

"Bella?"

"…don't..."

"Don't?" I repeat dazedly. "You don't want this?"

"…no…leave now…"

She wants me to _leave_ her? The mere thought of it bowls me over, but I am helpless to deny her anything.

"…go…get out… _now…_ "

Heart cracking down the middle, I feel my legs give way, just as something grabs me from behind and yanks me away from her.

I am spun around and crushed against a stone chest.

"Oh, thank God, Edward! You're here, you're _alive_. We were so afraid that something had happened! Alice saw you on the train, and then you were…you were…gone. She couldn't find you…and I thought that perhaps you had…had…"

Carlisle's voice trails off as his tears wet my hair and he sobs his relief. The strength of his embrace would be uncomfortable if my numb body cared enough to notice. Instead, my mind is full of _her_ words, playing on an incessant loop, clawing their way through me, leaving a trail of emptiness behind.

 _Please…don't…no…leave now…go…go..._

She doesn't want me.

She doesn't want _us_.

"Who doesn't want you?"

I hadn't realized I had spoken aloud.

Carlisle leans back and tilts my face upward in an effort to read the expression on my face. "What happened? Why did you come here?" He glances over my shoulder to the figure on the bed. "Who is she? And him?" His head nods toward Cartwright's slumped form.

The girl's eyes have closed, and she looks to be slipping in and out of consciousness herself. I turn slowly, not knowing how to even begin explaining what has transpired. With my immediate purpose gone, I am lost once again, adrift.

Carlisle moves over to the bed and examines the bloodied wound. He frowns at what he discovers.

"How long as her artery been clamped off? Was this doctor working on it when something happened? Is there a concern about exposure?" His mind rushes through numerous possible scenarios and actions he might need to take in response. The memory of me bending over the girl is prominent in his thoughts. He wonders if I caused her injuries, if her blood is especially appealing to me. The bullet shards confuse him, however.

"It was an accident," I answer tonelessly. "She attempted to rob me and was struck by the shrapnel that resulted when her bullet fragmented on my body." I move aside the tattered shirt hem so that he can see the entirety of the blackened hole in my jeans. "The _doctor_ in that chair was attempting to close the wound on her arm, and his incompetence resulted in a punctured artery. The shock of his mistake rendered him immobile and unable to repair it. He then…fell…and hit his head."

So many questions swirl in his thoughts, but he voices only the most pressing. "Is the young man aware of _how_ he fell?"

"I don't believe so, but I can't be sure. I hadn't been paying much attention to him at the time."

"Because your focus was elsewhere? On…this girl?" He doesn't wait for a reply; he can read me well enough that he doesn't need to. "She's important to you somehow."

"Yes." My voice cracks with emotion. "She's very important to me. In fact, she's _everything_. I know how unbelievable and impossible it's going to sound, but this girl, she's—"

My words stop short when I catch Cartwright's name in someone's thoughts. They belong to his attending; she has just transferred one of the now-stabilized gang members to intensive care. She wonders what her resident has been doing and plans to track him down as soon as she takes care of some paperwork.

"Another doctor is looking for Cartwright," I say to Carlisle, urgency in my voice. "I need you to repair the artery before she finds him here."

"Whatever for?" he asks, surprised. "This isn't a difficult procedure. It can be handled easily by the staff, and I don't have to tell you what sort of difficulties such an unauthorized intervention will cause."

"Yes, but…" I shake my head, trying to express my jumbled emotions in the form of a reasonable request. "I can't let anything happen to her, and I trust you above all others."

"But why—"

"I'll explain everything later, but _please_ do this for me now."

He stares at me with an inscrutable look on his face for one interminable second, then gives a single curt nod.

My shoulders slump in relief as I watch Carlisle set to his task. With deft, fluid movements, he dons gloves and then widens the wound with a scalpel just enough to maneuver. Not having a retractor at his disposal, he silently instructs me hold open the skin as he stitches closed the arterial walls. The clamps are released, and blood resumes flowing normally.

A grateful sigh escapes my lips as I stop the mental clock that had subconsciously counted the time her lower arm had been without circulation. She was well within the safe window and should suffer no lasting effects. I feel even more confident when Carlisle makes the same assessment.

Barely more than five minutes have passed, and he is already placing a light bandage over the sutured skin. It's not that his hands and fingers move so much faster than a human doctor's, but that he can work without pausing for accuracy considerations. Each action he takes is perfectly precise, guided by decades of expertise, and also not affected by physical factors like fatigue or the decline of old age.

The girl remains still throughout the procedure, her breathing regular and her heartbeat steady, albeit on the slower side. Without the ability to know her thoughts, I can't be sure if she is truly unconscious or instead hovering in that groggy area of extreme pain or exhaustion. Carlisle notes her bony frame and wishes he could order a glucose drip, especially with the significant amount of blood loss she suffered. He agrees that a CT scan should have been taken a while ago but also understands the difficulties of an overworked, underfunded Emergency Department.

I am doing my best to concentrate on the immediate state of her health and avoid contemplating how to move on from here— _if_ such a concept like moving on from a mate is even possible. The certainty remains: I cannot exist separate from her again, and if that means lurking in the shadows, unseen and anonymous, for the rest of her life, then so be it.

A jarring vibration disrupts my admittedly lackluster attempt to focus, and I direct my gaze to the wall, where Cartwright's pager is buzzing on his belt. Thankfully, I am saved from having to decide what the next step should be when he groans and stirs in the chair.

"Should I be here?" Carlisle murmurs, preparing to step outside the curtain. "Should you?"

"I can't leave her," I answer truthfully. "And I'd prefer if you stayed as well. It may make the backstory a little more complicated, but your credentials should be very helpful."

"And what exactly is our backstory?"

"I told the doctor that I'm her brother. His name is Cartwright, and he's a first-year resident—though I honestly question how he made it this far. He shouldn't be allowed to clean a paper cut without supervision." I shake my head in disgust and continue. "It would probably be best for you to act as the visiting uncle. I called you for moral support when I brought her in. And as far as the girl goes…"

I hesitate, not happy about both the situation itself and also having to admit it to Carlisle.

"She really did try to rob me; that's the first time I saw her… _this_ version of her, anyway. We didn't exchange many words—well, there were words exchanged, but I wouldn't call it a conversation. She said she didn't know who I was…yet there were moments where I _swore_ she recognized me in the alley…maybe I startled her and that's why she fired, or maybe it was an accident. I'm not sure, because she was injured and lost consciousness. But when that idiot punctured her artery, I saw it in her eyes, I saw _her_ , and with everything in me, I just know it's her. I _feel_ the truth of it." My voice trembles with despair and then breaks down into gasping sobs. "So then why…why doesn't she want me? _Before_ , she insisted that the past had been forgiven, but I always knew such grievous sins couldn't be brushed aside so easily. I understand that I deserve the censure, truly I do, but now it seems like my world is coming apart, and I just don't think that I can—"

"Edward!" Carlisle interrupts sharply. He grabs hold of my shoulders and gives me a quick, forceful shake.

I gape at him, close to hysterics.

His grip loosens though he doesn't let go. "Son, you have to calm down," he commands in a slightly softer yet equally intense voice. "I still don't understand what happened. Who exactly do you think this girl is?"

"Bella," I breathe out, feeling my heart twist inside my chest. "It's her, it's _Bella_. Fate has brought us together again, just like she said it would."

Carlisle's hands fall to his sides as he stares incredulously. For several seconds, he simply blinks at me, not knowing what to say. But I can hear the frenzied flurry of his thoughts. It's a testament to his own desperation for my happiness that he even allows the possibility of my assertion to cross his mind. He doesn't consider it for long, however, as a buried, incomprehensible fear wells up and smothers all else.

An image of Marcus flashes in his head, and he wonders if I have lost touch with reality as well.

Ironically, the idea of having to convince him that I'm not insane tempts me to let loose an uncharacteristic fit of giggles. Or maybe I truly have crossed the line into madness. Considering the events of the last few hours, not much would surprise me now. I feel lost and emotionally drained.

Cartwright performs his first good deed by choosing that moment to fully awaken and give me something concrete on which to focus.

"Ugh, holy shit," he mutters, gingerly touching the side of his head, where a large bruise has formed. "What the hell happened?" His gaze darts around the room, then settles on the girl's prone form.

I snap into a crisis containment mindset at once, grief whisked into a steel cage and locked away to be dealt with later. Her safety remains my utmost priority. Drawing up to full height, I allow menace to creep into my features as I stalk over to the befuddled resident. "You mean, what happened after you caused all this?" I snarl, waving my hand toward the bloodied sheets and instruments. I grab the biohazard waste bin containing the still-wet gauze and push it into his face. "And this? You're lucky my uncle showed up just in time to save your sorry ass."

"Um, your uncle?" he chokes out in confusion while blanching away from crimson-colored pads. His mental faculties are still sluggish and having difficulty processing the situation.

All the better to work this in my favor.

Carlisle plays his role to perfection without prompting from me. "I'm Dr. Cullen, a surgeon at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical," he states authoritatively, holding out his hospital credentials for Cartwright to see. "I came at my nephew's request, purely as familial support, but arrived to find _your_ patient bleeding profusely from a laceration to the brachial artery. Apparently, she suffered an iatrogenic injury—which, as I'm sure you know, means that it was caused by the doctor who was supposed to be treating her. The _negligent_ doctor."

I hide a dark smirk behind my accusing glare. "I asked him to step because he's someone I trust, which is more than I can say about the doctors here, if your competence is any indication. Now, I know what's going through your head: does my uncle have privileges at his hospital? The answer is no, but that hardly matters because no one else is going to find out. It pains me to think the credit for such excellent work will go to you, but make no mistake, you _will_ take it. Because otherwise, your attending will find out exactly why another doctor had to step in. And as I understand it, your relationship with her has been tenuous since your first week here when you suggested that a pregnant woman take Excedrin for her headache. Aspirin and caffeine—really, Cartwright?"

His face drains of what little color he had regained. "How did you—?"

"Does it matter? The point is that when your attending comes here looking for you—and she will be in about two minutes—this is what you're going to tell her…"

-ooo-


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Cartwright's attending, Dr. Malik, conducts herself very professionally as she examines the girl and converses with Carlisle, but her angry thoughts reveal that the young doctor is in for a painful counseling session later in the evening. I wouldn't mind giving him my own version of a painful counseling session. But while a simple verbal reprimand is a far cry from what he deserves for his ineptitude, the situation is complicated enough without having to explain what actually happened.

Other than providing my slightly altered account of the circumstances surrounding the girl's injuries, I don't speak to Dr. Malik. My attention is instead centered on the frail, battered form on the hospital bed. She hasn't regained consciousness, but her breathing is regular, her heartbeat strong. My hands are stretched out on the bed, aching fiercely to close the small gap of space I've kept between us. But I can't take the glorious liberty of touch; it's shameful enough on my part that I'm still here when she wants me gone.

Carlisle convincingly acts the part of an estranged, yet concerned uncle who wants to help his sister's struggling family and arranges to accept financial responsibility for the medical care of his niece. As he provides the required information to the staff member from Billing, he silently relays his experiences from the time I left him on the train.

 _I contacted Alice, but the most she was able to see were a few blurry images of you walking down nondescript streets. It took a few attempts for me to determine you were on the Green line, and after that, it was a matter of investigating each stop to see if you had departed the station. Just as I found your scent leaving the Laramie platform, Alice called back, grief-stricken, saying that she could no longer find your future. The time coincided with what she had seen before, with your original plan to…with the original_ arrangement _. Naturally, the family thought you had carried it out, albeit in a different manner. But something in me wouldn't accept such a conclusion; I truly believed I would somehow know if you were gone…that I would_ feel _it. Regardless of the truth, I would of course follow your trail until I had a definitive answer, and thank God, it led me here._

His mind becomes blank for a fraction of a second—the mental equivalent of a deep, centering breath.

 _No doubt you've taken note of my concern and apprehension about this surprising...turn of events. We don't have to address it now, but I hope you'll be open to discussion once the situation has settled a bit. Unless you need anything further, I'm going to step outside to call the family. Alice, Jasper, and Esme left Hanover immediately after learning of your disappearance and should arrive in about twelve hours._

"That's fine," I murmur absently, more out of reflex than actual acquiescence.

 _Remember, we love and support you. Just…please be careful going forward. I can't express how thankful I am to still have you with us, but a less dramatic reprieve would've been nice. I think the past few hours may have given me a gray hair or two._

Despite my somber mood, Carlisle's words manage to elicit a wry snort. He finishes with the employee from Billing and heads to the Emergency Department's main lobby. As he departs, I catch the end of an errant train of thought.

 _...if this girl doesn't recognize him, then what? Will I need to intervene?_ Could _I intervene, if it means he again asks for his death?_

Fresh waves of emotion overwhelm me, and I struggle to keep from making a sound. However, if one were to slip out, I'm not sure what form it would take. Would I growl in response to the threat of anything coming between me and my mate? Would I scoff at the notion that Bella's soul could fail to know mine? Or would I let out a cry of tormented grief when remembering that, despite our bond, she has already bid me to stay away?

My fists clench around handfuls of stiff cotton bedsheet, but the slight tearing noise is masked by a soft, raspy groan. Long eyelashes flutter, rose lips part slightly, fingers twitch.

Deep brown eyes, darker than I'm used to, shift in my direction and focus.

She's awake.

And I can't stop the wide smile that stretches across my face. In an instant, every worry, every regret of mine is washed away by the relief of knowing that's she _okay_. She's here, with me, alive and conscious. Nothing else matters.

"Welcome back, love. How are you feeling?" My voice is soft, almost a whisper, trembling with joy and awe.

Her brow furrows as she stares at me. I can practically feel on my skin the path her gaze takes across my forehead, down my nose, along my jaw, over my lips. Each second she devotes to studying my features is an eternity of bittersweet agony. I feel the oddest urge to fidget but find myself immobile, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to _think_ , in fear of breaking the spell we're under.

Her eyes flash to my chest, down my arms, and to hands that are once again lying flat on the mattress, just inches away from where she lies. The tension surrounding us swirls and intensifies until even the air itself feels heavy.

"I…know you."

The words come slowly, quietly, hesitantly, but the effect they have on me is like a jolt of lightning to my dead heart. I suck in a gasp of air.

" _Yes_. Yes, you do," I breathe, moisture stinging my eyes. "Bella…oh god, I've miss you so much…" Her image blurs out of focus, and I blink rapidly, reaching out with a hand to find hers.

But just as I feel the warmth from her skin on my fingertips, the hospital's loudspeakers blare out an emergency.

 _"Code Blue, Pediatrics, 2114. Code Blue, Pediatrics, 2114."_

She startles and jerks away from my outstretched fingers. Her eyes widen as they take in the confines of the small exam room.

"What the hell…" She tries to sit up but only raises her head a few inches off the pillow before wincing and pressing a palm to her temple. "Ow, ow, _ow_ …that hurts!"

My own expression contorts into a tortured grimace. I would give anything to take on her pain as my own—a pain that I had been responsible for causing.

"Easy, sweetheart. Don't overexert yourself," I plead. "I'll have a nurse bring you some relief medication."

The call button rests on the other side of her body near her bandaged elbow. I decide it would be wiser to walk around the bed than to lean over her. But the moment I step away from her side, she gasps.

Round, frightened eyes are fixed on the blackened hole of my pants that had become visible when I shifted.

"You were in the alley," she whispers.

I don't need extra abilities to hear the rising panic in her voice.

"Yes, I was. And you found me—"

"You wouldn't listen," she continues, not appearing to pay my words any attention. "You came at me."

"Came at you? No, I only wanted to—"

"You got shot." The hand of her uninjured arm covers her mouth as she gasps in shock. "Oh my god, _I_ shot you."

My body automatically begins to take me to her side, but I freeze when she cringes away from me.

And my soul shatters anew.

"Please don't be upset. Everything's okay," I try to reassure her in a soothing voice—one that hides the utter destruction I'm experiencing. I nudge down the hem of my slacks to show unmarred skin. "See? You didn't injure me. I'm fine."

"I shot you…point blank…and you're fine," she repeats dazedly. A heavy pause. "You're…fine?"

She glances down at the large bandage wrapped around her left arm, and then at the small ones littering the exposed skin of the right arm. A hand then slides over her chest and abdomen to feel the several bumps of gauze under her gown.

"I'm hurt…and you're okay." Disbelief saturates her tone as she shakes her head. "There's a hole in your pants, but nothing happened to you _._ That can't be right. It doesn't make sense, unless…oh my god…"

Her eyes widen, and I can hear the already rapid beat of her heart pick up pace. She turns her head away from me to stare blankly at the wall of the exam bay. "It's too soon—I need more time," she whispers. "I didn't even get a warning."

"A warning?" I ask, confused. "About what? About me?"

"This changes everything," she continues in a hollow murmur, either ignoring me or having missed hearing my words somehow. "Now I'll have to...oh god, it's the _last_ thing in the world I want to do, but what choice do I have? She comes first before everything else. She will always—"

"Bella," I interrupt, trying to draw her attention to me. It doesn't work, as she continues to ramble on.

"—come first, no matter what. Dammit! There's got to be another way. Maybe Lita could…no, she's too old. And too broke…hell, she can barely afford to feed herself. Even if I was able to pull in some extra cash somehow, it wouldn't be enough." She squeezes her eyes shut as tears gather. "Nothing I can do will be enough."

The anguish in her voice instantly becomes my own, and I am desperate to ease her pain. I latch onto the only thing from what she said of which I can remotely make sense.

"How much?" I practically shout the question at her in my desire to help. "How much do you need?"

Her eyes snap open, and she looks at me, her features arranged in an indecipherable expression. I take a deep breath to steady myself.

"Money," I clarify at a more appropriate volume. "Whatever amount you need, it's yours. I don't have any funds on me now, but I'll arrange a transfer first thing in the morning. And if there's anything else I can assist with, don't hesitate to ask. You know I'd do anything for you."

She continues to stare for several long moments. The deep gaze of her eyes—dark chocolate instead of the rootbeer brown burned into my memory—holds me captive. I'm so lost in her thrall that I almost fail to notice when the normally abrasive background chatter caused by thousands of mental voices and images in my head begins to fade into nothingness. The odd dichotomy of a roaring silence surrounds me; it is an absolute quiet that I've never experienced before, not even when I'm miles away from any other being. The sensation would be petrifying if I had the presence of mind to actually think about what's happening, but my brain appears just as frozen as the rest of me.

Time itself seems to stand still…until a harsh laugh cuts through the discomforting calm and releases me from the spell I'm under. I flinch from the battering mental onslaught of countless foreign thoughts returning suddenly, like someone plugged in a speaker whose volume was set on high.

But my eyes remain fixed on the fragile figure glaring at me from the bed.

"Shouldn't you be wearing tights or on a white horse or something?" she eventually spits out, her upper lip curling in disdain.

If I thought it wasn't possible to be more confused than I already am, I was wrong.

"Pardon me?"

She rolls her eyes. "If I'm going to hallucinate a hot guy swooping in to save the day, I want the complete package. And since I like fantasy over superheroes, how about you get your cute little ass into some tight breeches and hop on a flying unicorn before you deliver my bags of gold."

I can only gape in response, as I am completely lost in this conversation.

"Figures," she says with a snort when I don't answer. Her head turns away from me as she examines her surroundings more closely. "I wonder if any of this is real. Like, maybe I'm really in a hospital, and just Mr. Bulletproof Romeo is the hallucination. Can that happen?"

"You're not hallucinating," I interject passionately. "This is all real— _I'm_ real."

"Ha! Exactly what I would expect a hallucination to say," she proclaims, sounding triumphant. "I'm just going to ignore you from now on. Maybe that'll make you go away faster. Besides, I know what you really are, and you're not here to rescue me. You're the bad guy."

Despite all my supernatural strength, my legs feel strangely weak, and I give in to the urge to collapse onto a nearby chair. Doubled over with my elbows on my knees, I push my hands into my hair and curl them into fists.

It then occurs to me to wonder about the sickening possibility that _I_ am the one who is hallucinating.

"No," I whisper vehemently. "I refuse to believe that. She said we'd find each other again. She said our love transcended life and death. And somehow, _she_ is here with me now. This _is_ real. I can _feel_ it."

With renewed determination, I sit up in the chair, ready to again make contact with my soulmate whose spirit is somehow residing within this girl.

But upon taking in the sight of said girl sliding shakily to her feet, I realize I have more immediate concerns than reconnecting with my ethereal love.

"What are you doing?" I gasp, rushing to her side. "It's too soon for you to be moving around unassisted. Please let me help you back onto the bed."

"Lalala, not hearing a thing you say 'cuz I'm totally ignoring you," she mutters through clenched teeth, disregarding my outstretched hand and taking a tentative step toward the curtain. "Hallucinations or not, I need to get my ass outta here. Lita's probably popped a hernia by now, and it looks like I've got a shit-load of stuff to figure out since it's starting so soon."

I'm her figurative shadow as makes her way slowly across the linoleum flooring, my hands hovering inches away from her body in case she falls. "Please, if you insist on leaving, at least wait for the discharge papers with instructions for after care. And now that you're awake, it would be very helpful for you to relay your medical history to the doctor."

Her entire body suddenly tenses, which disrupts her precarious balance and causes her to pitch forward. I react instinctively, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her close.

"Are you okay?" I breathe. If I had a functional heart, it would be thundering in my chest, even though she was never in danger of reaching the ground.

She doesn't attempt to leave my embrace, and I certainly have no problem with that. If it weren't for her obvious distress, I'd be in heaven, having her so close. But from the rigidness of her muscles, I can feel the anxiety coursing through her.

"What are the chances this is all a bad dream?" she mumbles, her face pressed into my shirt. "I'd try pinching myself to wake up, but since I already feel like shit, I don't think that would work." She pauses. "'Course, it's not like my life _before_ was all that great, but at least we were getting by. At least I could still hope that I'd have a lot more time with her. But now that it's started—now that _you're_ here—I somehow have to get ready to say good—good-bye." Her voices hitches as a sob escapes her throat. "Dammit, I'm not ready to say good-bye to her. How am I supposed to do that?"

Startled by her emotional words, I gently ease away so that I can crouch down and look up into her teary eyes. "Say good-bye? What do you mean? I would never take you anywhere you didn't want to go. I would never force you into anything. I know you want me to leave, and though it may be the most you could ever ask, I will do it, because your happiness is more important. But _please_ , first tell me what I can do to make your life easier. You mentioned that money is a concern; I want to make sure you never have to worry about that again. And if you'd rather not work with me, someone from my family can be your point of contact."

Her red-rimmed eyes study my face intently. I don't know what she is seeing—hopefully my utter sincerity and devotion—but whatever she finds causes a wry, almost tender, grin to appear.

"You know, I've been wondering for a while what it would be like when you finally came, but other than the pain and weakness, this part isn't so bad right now. If it was just me, I almost wouldn't mind staying in it as long as you're here. But I promised she'd have a better life than I did, even if that just meant someone was always there for her. I _really_ wanted that someone to be me. But now, because of you, I've got to give her up."

Like previously, the more she talks, the more confused I become.

"I don't understand what you mean!" I cry out softly, frantic with frustration. "Nothing has to change if you don't want it to. Who is it you think I'm making you give up?"

She squints at me skeptically, as if she can't believe I'm asking these questions.

"Um, Ell, of course. Duh."

"Ell?" My entire world slams to a stop. "You mean... _Bella_?"

Her incredulous expression twists into annoyance.

"Bella? What the hell are you talking about? How does a hallucination coming out of my own freakin' brain not know who Ell is?"

"I'm not a halluc—" I cut myself off with a shake of the head, not wanting to argue now over that point again. "Please, just humor me. Who is Ell?"

"Ugh," she groans, "if you're going to stick around asking all these annoying questions about the most basic stuff, maybe I'll change my mind about this not being so bad."

"Please?" I repeat quietly, beseechingly.

She gives me an eye roll that is fast becoming a common gesture in her conversation with me.

"Ell...Ellie...Elizabeth Anne. My daughter."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

My jaw drops as I blink dazedly and take a small step backward.

"Elizabeth Anne?" I echo, the pitch of my words about an octave higher than normal. "You have a daughter, and her name is Elizabeth Anne?"

My mind races at the implications of this information. Bella's first child was a daughter named Elizabeth Anne, a now-elderly woman whom I talked with only a few times, twenty years ago, while posing as the grandson of Edward Cullen. My family and I, however, are well acquainted with Elizabeth's daughter Sophia Marie—the very same Sophie that recently insisted I was godfather to a cat.

Since our meeting in the alley earlier today, I've had several moments of doubt over this unexpected and unlikely girl indeed being _my_ Bella, but evidence is mounting. Similar smell, silent mind, daughter with the same name…I think even the most devout cynic would start to question the odds at this point.

My acceptance of this unbelievable miracle, however, doesn't count for much if the girl doesn't acknowledge it, too. There have been moments when I _swore_ we connected, but for the most part, she doesn't appear to recognize me.

Perhaps it would help if I talked about Bella's life, especially our time together. I could have Sophie send my journals…or better yet, have her bring them in person. And maybe, once the girl is feeling better, I could take her to—

"Hey Romeo, um, are you okay?"

She peers up at me, actually looking somewhat concerned. I dimly note that I haven't moved a muscle for well over a minute—not even to breathe. After so many years mourning Bella and living in the past, I have a tendency to get lost inside my thoughts. I make a conscious effort to relax my rigid form and focus on the present.

"Romeo?" The corner of my mouth turns up to form a wry grin as I remember Emmett calling me the same, albeit with the adjectives "demented vampire" attached. "My name is actually Edward. Edward Anthony Masen Cullen."

I watch her reaction closely to see if any of that seems familiar to her, but she only looks perplexed.

"Er, ooo-kay," she says, stretching the word out. "I wasn't expecting you to actually have a name, but what do I know about how these things work?" She sighs. "Looks like I'm no good at ignoring you, so I guess I'll just have to go with it. If I play along, will you get me out of here so I can be with Ellie?"

I nod in relief. I'll take whatever extra time with her she'll allow.

"It's a deal," I reply. "But first, may I help you back into bed so that you can rest while I make the arrangements? Also, there are a few details about your current situation that I need to share before you meet with the doctor…"

* * *

Her shoulders have been shaking for a good minute. I frown as I hand her a tissue to wipe the moisture from her eyes.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," she gasps, her words disrupted as she tries to catch her breath. "It's just…I can't…that's so—"

"I don't see how this is at all humorous," I mutter, trying to keep the aching hurt out my voice.

Apparently I fail to do so, for she bites down on her lip and shakes her head.

"Sorry, shit, just gimme a sec." She places her uninjured hand on her chest and closes her eyes as she lets out a shuddering gust of air. When she opens them again, the mirth is contained. "Okay, I'm calm now—see? And I'm really sorry I laughed at your story. It's tragic and all, but you can't blame me for thinking the whole thing is a little weird. I mean, come on: you run into a random stranger who's trying to mug you, but you see your reincarnated dead ex-girlfriend instead? Then somehow she's the one who gets messed up when she accidentally shoots you, so you take her to the hospital and tell the doctors she's your sister? That's some next-level crazy right there, Romeo."

"It's all true, though," I reply forlornly. "And I'd really rather you called me Edward."

"Nah, I like Romeo better. It fits you. But speaking of names, what the hell is up with 'Mildred'? Do I seriously look like a Mildred Frances? You couldn't make up a cooler name to give the hospital, like Beyoncé? Where did Mildred even come from anyway?"

I sniff rather indignantly. "When I was growing up, I knew quite a few young ladies with those names."

"Yeah right. Did you grow up in the 1800s or something?"

"Well, actually—"

"Actually, Edward has always enjoyed reading about the turn of the twentieth century," Carlisle interjects with a pointed glance in my direction. "He's quite the history buff."

I sigh quietly, understanding the reason for not revealing to her—to _Sara_ —any details about our supernatural existence, but definitely not liking the situation. It feels so odd not to be completely open with the person I believe to be my soulmate.

Of course, it's just as strange to think of this girl by the name she gave to us: Sara Matthews. I still see her as Bella in my head, especially since she refused to give me any other information that might help to differentiate her from the woman I loved and lost so many years ago. She wouldn't even tell me her age, though clearly she is young. I estimate she should still be in high school—that is, if she even attends at all. Unfortunately, teenage mothers are far less likely to continue with school and graduate, especially without strong family support.

I had been hoping to at least find out a little about her parents or legal guardians, but her panicked expression and the frenzied beat of her heart caused me to quickly abandon that line of questioning. Instead, I began to explain the events that led up to her admittance to the hospital.

Carlisle then returned to the exam bay, helpfully waiting to make his entrance into her room until I reached his role in my narration. As I formally introduced him to the girl who turned my world on its head, he showed me a mental account of his phone calls.

Alice reported that I remain absent from her visions, but she does see the rest of the family staying in my Chicago home for the next several days. She made no mention of any visitors to the house, human or otherwise, though Carlisle hasn't yet said anything to the others about this girl's significance to me, or her connection to the scent that prompted me to run and leave Carlisle behind. He told them only that I happened across someone who was injured and took her to the hospital.

Esme is very curious about the girl, and from her tone, Carlisle is fairly confident she suspects there is more to the story than what he relayed to them. Rosalie, on the other hand, voiced her suspicions aloud when Carlisle called her and Emmett, who had stayed behind in New Hampshire. He directed them to prepare the appropriate documents establishing a false identity and legal guardianship for one Mildred Frances Masen. Assuming responsibility for medical bills is easy enough; arranging the hospital release of a minor who suffered an injury from a firearm is a much more complicated affair. Although extremely reluctant to do so but worried about my actions if he didn't, Carlisle had agreed to help me fulfill my promise to the girl.

There is a limit, however, in just how far he is willing to bend human law, Volturi decree, and his own moral code; and that limit has nearly been reached. His concern over my "obsession" seems to grow with each passing minute. It was bad enough when he learned about Sara's daughter, but to make matters worse, his vast experience in the medical field allowed him to discover something else very worrisome.

My eyes flashed to his in alarm when he first detected the unique medley of scents that faintly clung to the skin of her hands amidst the still-strong odor of gunshot residue. Carlisle had nodded sadly.

 _I'm almost certain of it. The combination of those particular preservative ingredients, plastics, and the actual drugs themselves—if I didn't know better, I'd think she was a part-time pharmacist based on the odors alone. I won't presume to guess the context, but in some manner, she frequently handles pharmaceuticals—and other drugs as well._ He'd gathered another deep lungful of her scent to analyze more closely. _If it helps, I don't believe she's a regular user herself._

The thought of her having contact with a large amount drugs continues to distress me, but not because of any judgment on my part about a choice of lifestyle. Considering what she'd mentioned about needing money, I'm upset that _choice_ may not have factored into the decision. It pains me to imagine what she may have had to endure to up this point. But, now that I've found her, money will never again be an issue for her and her daughter.

Her daughter.

The concept is fascinating to me. I haven't spent much time around anyone younger than a high school teenager, and although Sophie had been pregnant once, her unborn child was lost in the same car accident that took the life of her husband. I fervently hope Bel— _Sara—_ allows me to meet Ellie, who can't be any older than a toddler, or possibly a preschooler.

It suddenly occurs to me to wonder about the father, and the jealousy that crashes over me is overwhelming. I'm torn between hoping for Sara and Ellie's sake that he is an integral part of their family who loves them deeply and wanting him to be a long-gone anonymous stranger who means little more to them than a contributor of DNA. She hasn't made mention of him yet, so that bodes well for the latter possibility. Of course, if this person hurt them at any point, either then or now, I'll gladly see to it that he is repaid tenfold.

"Hey Romeo, what's that weird face for? We're at a hospital, so if you're constipated, I'm sure they can give you something."

Carlisle barely suppresses an amused chuckle at Sara's words. In his mind, I see the expression I'm wearing: a mixture of deep concentration, longing, and disgust. As much as I hate to admit it, she made a fairly accurate observation.

Thankfully, I'm not able to blush and so quickly steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts for a moment," I say, sidestepping her comment. "Do you have any other questions about the backstory we provided—other than the origin of your name?"

"I think I got it," she replies with a shrug. "You're my brother, and he's Uncle Carlisle from New Hampshire who's got temporary guardianship of us while our dad, Edward Senior is out of town. Earlier today—or I guess it was yesterday at this point—I found a random gun on the street and picked it up. The thing went off, I got hurt, and you brought me in but lied to the ER people that you didn't know me because you were scared."

I nod approvingly. "Perfect. The doctor probably won't ask any personal questions, but if she does, you are not obligated to answer. Carlisle and I can supply any additional information to help your discharge move as quickly as possible."

"And they bought your story on how we're supposed to be related? That's crazy. Don't they have eyes? We don't look alike at all." She pauses, then shakes her head slowly. "What am I talking about? It's not as if it has to make sense—none of this is real anyway."

Carlisle glances sharply at me. I don't need to hear his thoughts to understand the question in his eyes, but I ignore it for the moment. Leaning over her bed and letting my elbows rest on the mattress, I take one of her hands in both of mine.

"Sara," I begin earnestly, "I promise that this is not a dream, nor is it a hallucination. Your injuries are real, the hospital is real… _I'm_ real. If there's something I can do that will help you accept that what I'm saying is true, please tell me."

Closing her eyes tightly, she presses her lips together and shakes her head.

I sigh. "Regardless, I promised that I would do everything I could to have you discharged as soon as possible, and that is still my intention. Assuming that there are no unforeseen difficulties, you should be leaving the hospital before noon."

"Noon!" Her eyes fly open to gape at me. "That's almost eleven hours from now! I can't wait that long. I don't care about being discharged; I just need to get home."

"It's not the simple. Not only are you a minor, your wounds were caused by the discharge of a firearm. The hospital is obligated to report the incident to law enforcement, and—"

"The cops?" she shrieks. "No! No way. It's bad enough that you brought me here, even with a fake name, but I'm not talking to cops!"

"Shh, please lower your voice," I urge, squeezing her hand. "If you don't want to speak with the police, causing a scene won't help your cause."

She yanks her arm from my grasp. "I know what this is about. You lied to trick me into waiting around until the cops could get here. You want to turn me in for what happened earlier today! Nice try, but you and your _uncle_ can go fuck yourselves. I'm outta here, for real this time."

Throwing the blanket off her body, she tries to stand up by rolling off the mattress onto her feet. But in her still-weakened state, her legs slip out from under her.

I hurl my body across the bed in an effort to stop her fall, but Carlisle is already there, wrapping an arm around her torso to steady her, albeit a little more roughly than necessary. He uses the few seconds of chaos to pull a small syringe from his pocket and inject its contents into her thigh.

 _Ketamine_ , I see in his thoughts. Apparently he'd had the foresight to pilfer a syringe from a well-stocked ambulance whose crew had been focused on transferring their patient. He's hoping she'll think the pinch from the needle was a result of her tumble off the bed.

"Ow, dammit," she mutters as she scrambles to regain her balance. "This shit's getting old." With a scowl, she pushes Carlisle away and rubs at her leg. "I don't need your help. Unless you feel like distracting the nurses while I sneak out of here…"

"He just wants to make sure you're okay," I answer, coming around the bed to take Carlisle's place by her side. "We both do. You've been through a lot today."

"Ha, what else is new? I wouldn't know how to handle a day where something _didn't_ go wrong."

Underneath her defiant tone, I can hear a long-suffering weariness that belies her youthful appearance. I am more committed than ever to ensuring that her life becomes easier from this day forward. Even without this fateful connection I feel, I would want to help in some way, based on her strength of character alone. Her head is held high, and despite the fact that she's attempting to walk away from me, I can't help but admire her tenacity and spark.

Carlisle clears his throat softly to catch my wandering attention.

 _Ketamine works rapidly to sedate a patient,_ he reminds me, _and the effects should last thirty to forty-five minutes. But after she recovers, we'll still need an exit strategy._ He raises a hopeful eyebrow. _Please tell you have one?_

I grimace. Ever since I met this girl, I've been living in the moment. Spontaneity is not normally a character I possess, and there seems to be a good reason for it: so far, I'm failing miserably when it comes to thinking on my feet.

Sara appears surprised—perhaps even slightly disappointed—when I make no effort to stop her from leaving the room this time. She huffs and lifts her chin to give me a final glare.

But when those swirling brown eyes lock on mine, I find myself being drawn once again into a silent world that excludes the presence of all others, except the two of us. The edges of my vision dim until only she is in focus, and for a few precious seconds, everything is perfect. Over the span of several of her heartbeats, I am whole. I am happy. I am at peace.

Then she blinks.

I'm a little more prepared this time when my mental quietude is suddenly shattered by the rushing return of others' thoughts and am able to quickly reestablish the figurative filters that suppress the usual clamor in my head.

"How are you doing that?" I ask, my voice hushed, reverent.

"How…am I…doing…what?"

She blinks again and tilts her head to the side with a puzzled expression, as if curious about why words are taking longer than usual to form on her lips. Then she takes a step forward and sways on unsteady legs that appear to be resisting any commands issued to them.

The effects of the ketamine are beginning to take hold.

I close the distance between us in one hurried leap—an inhumanly large leap that would've been difficult to explain had Sara been able to properly process the sight. But as it is, she is having trouble simply keeping her eyes open.

"Thisss is…weird. I'm really sssleepy," she lisps, sounding younger than ever. "I wanna…go sssleep."

With great effort, I resist the urge to sweep her into my arms and hold her close for the next half hour. And to be shamefully honest with myself, if Carlisle weren't with us, I might have done just that. Assisting her onto the bed and stepping back is difficult—almost physically painful. Given a choice, I think I'd rather tear off a limb and leave it there instead of her.

Carlisle joins me beside to attach the fingertip sensor of the nearby pulse oximeter and monitor her condition. At the same time, he begins a conversation I know is necessary, even though it's one I'd much rather avoid.

 _I think you neglected to tell me a few important details about this girl and your relationship._ His mental voice is somehow both reproachful and gentle at the same time. _It would be very helpful for me to better understand the entirety of the situation, especially since the whole family is now involved and we've given the hospital our personal information. If she's not cooperative with our efforts, the authorities may decide to investigate more deeply instead of issuing the cursory administrative report we're counting on._ His gaze shifts from me to the barely conscious form on the bed. _What did she mean by "none of this is real"? Did you tell her anything about our nature?_

I scrub a hand over my eyes and sigh. "She saw the hole in my pants and couldn't understand how I remained uninjured. I didn't even have the chance to consider telling her the truth: she immediately latched onto the idea that she was hallucinating my presence, and possibly all the events of the night as well. That thought was very distressing to her, and she became frantic with concern about the future welfare of her daughter."

Carlisle is surprised. _Hallucinating? That's an odd first conclusion. Perhaps she has had hallucinations in the past through drug use?_

"I suppose it's possible," I murmur reluctantly. "But I think there's more to her reaction than drug use could explain. Whether referring to me as a person or as the embodiment of a hallucinogenic state, she seemed both caught off-guard by my appearance here at the hospital yet also expecting it. She was very distraught that I would make her leave her daughter behind, though I never once suggested anything remotely like that. I hadn't even known the child existed."

Carlisle's sharp mind digests the information and quickly generates several half-formed theories, though he doesn't favor any one in particular. His forehead creases as he turns back to me.

 _It's an intriguing mystery, but the pressing matter remains seeing to her departure from the hospital without inviting scrutiny of our background. And while I don't relish the idea of exploiting anyone's mental state, it may be worth considering using the hallucination angle to gain her cooperation._

A protest forms in my throat, but Carlisle cuts me off with a mischievous grin and the flash of an alternate mental plan that has me snorting out an incredulous laugh.

"What's so humorous?" he asks aloud, his tone deceptively innocent. "I think my idea has a very good probability of working."

"It's better than anything I could come up with," I admit, still chuckling. "I just didn't expect such a scheme from the upstanding, respectable Dr. Carlisle Cullen."

He shrugs. "If you've walked this earth for nearly four centuries and haven't committed at least one or two questionable acts, you've led a very dull life indeed."


End file.
